


flowers grow tall.

by ffomixam



Category: The Beatles (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe, First Kiss, Gardens & Gardening, M/M, Not Actually Unrequited Love, One Shot, POV Multiple
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-19
Updated: 2019-03-19
Packaged: 2019-11-24 16:15:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,795
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18167375
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ffomixam/pseuds/ffomixam
Summary: a birthday gift for Kaz, (beatles.aesthetics on instagram) for her and _indignant_'s (also on instagram) baby you're rich man au.





	flowers grow tall.

**Author's Note:**

> IT'S A MESS BUT

“Normality is a paved road:

It’s comfortable to walk but no flowers grow.”

\- Vincent Van Gogh.

  
  


Ringo woke up late one Wednesday noon. Something that wasn’t unusual in the Starr household.  In fact; one could say that noon was early for the young man. Ringo knew it wasn’t good for him to sleep so late, but he was a rut. An emotional rut. With only himself to blame, really. He felt he was doing the same thing day in and day out. All alone. With brings up another thing for which was causing his rut. He was in love. Usually, one would think, that would be a happy occasion. One to feel giddy and happy about, one with no cloudy days. But not for Ringo. For he was in love with his gardener, George Harrison, and for that reason, he couldn’t do anything about his feelings. He couldn’t ruin the budding relationship with which he had built with the younger man since his hiring. And surely it would be unorthodox; he was George’s employer after all. And Ringo, admittedly, was nonetheless scared to risk it. Scared to say anything even near the topic of crushes and love. And even if he did risk it; it wasn’t like the feelings would be mutual. How could it be? 

Ringo heaved a sigh and forced himself out of bed. He could tell the housekeeper had been in. His drapes pulled apart and the wine bottle from the night before gone, together with the stains on the table. As he sat on the side of his bed, flexing his toes before standing up, he noticed a vase on his nightstand that wasn’t there the day before. It was filled with gardenias from his garden and was surprised that he hadn’t noticed them earlier as they emitted a strong pleasant scent, renewing him of his hope for the day, for more than just that.

 

 

* * *

 

Not much further away from the awakening Ringo, down in the mansion’s great garden, a man with long brown hair tied into a messy bun was hard at work. Studying the flowerbeds, mending the earth, shaping the bushes. He was the gardener. He had been here since early morning and still, he could tell he had a long day ahead of him. The amaryllis looked worse for wear and the sight broke his heart. It had been a stormful few days, record-breaking he had heard on the radio and tried not to have his hopes up upon his return to work. And it looked like he was right not too. It had looked like a bulldozer had torn through the garden, vengeful machinery angry in throwing flowers and plants alike left and right. He sighed and looked around. He had met in early purposely to see the damages and a piece of him wished he had stayed away altogether. But the work had to be done, and he loved the garden so. 

The gardener, George Harrison, looked over to the thorn bushes and sighed as he went over to them. Hands on his hips; he looked down upon the mess and paused, it could easily be fixed, he knew this. But it still brought a certain kind of sadness. To see nature fight nature in such a way. But in the ruins of the garden, new life could grow. A meow was heard from the bundle of leaves in front of him, and out came the source. It was Starr, his cat who had so loyally followed him earlier that day on his walk to work. George picked up the darling cat, nuzzling his face down into the luscious fur which earned him a purr. Putting the animal down, he turned and noticed he was watched. 

From one of the many windows facing the garden, one stood out. It was his employer’s, Ringo Starr, bedroom window and there, saw George, the man himself stood looking out. George threw a hasty smile and wave but quickly turning back around as he felt his face flush. It wasn’t that he didn’t like the staring, admittingly a part of him did, which was where the problem lied. He liked Ringo. More than a friend, an employer, and it was a torment. Nothing could come of it. There was the status inequality. He was poor. Ringo wasn’t. Really wasn’t. He was a man with means and connections. And George didn’t want to be a cause of ruin, as he was certain a relationship like theirs could bring. But, surely, Ringo felt nothing alike for George than he himself did for Ringo. He needed to take some kind, any kind, of comfort in that. 

So he returned to the ruined garden. A fitting metaphor, he thought somberly and returned to work.

 

* * *

 

Once Ringo had dressed; he made his way down the grand staircases with the scent of gardenias lingering in his nostrils and with George on his mind still. He hadn’t meant to stare at the aforementioned man in the garden. And certainly not long enough to be caught. And while he for a short while was embarrassed, a warm light feeling and introduced itself to his chest, bringing forth a smile and erasing all regret.

He reached the kitchen. A massive room with marble tiles and sunlight beaming through the windows. A small of coffee and freshly baked bread greeted him as he stepped inside. Inside stood the housekeeper,  going through a folder, who quickly noticed his presence. Shutting the folder; she looked to him with a polite smile, “Morning, Monsieur Starr,” she greeted. Astride Harrier was a robust woman of French nationality at the end of her fifties, a woman he had known most of his life and who had worked for his father before him. “Letters arrived for you, Monsieur, I have placed them next to your coffee.” She said and went out of the room with a smile. Ringo smiled in return; he had told her often to just refer to him with his first name to always no avail. He looked over the letters. Three of them. One from his mother and he wondered anxious what it could be about, usually she would just call him. One from a J.Lennon that he didn’t know. And a third dealing with work that he just didn’t have the headspace for right now.

But before he could look into any of that, he felt a plush tingling at his ankles and looked down. It was a cat. And not just any cat, his gardener’s little Delilah. It’s soft mews intensified as he bent down to pet her. It was a pleasant creature, always ensuring to lift his spirits. It was only when the small animal left his arms that he noticed he wasn’t the only man in the room. At the kitchen door leading to the garden stood the owner of Delilah. Cowered in the dirt with his shoes off and arms full of tea roses; stood George Harrison, the source of butterflies and fit of flushes. Ringo hurried up, almost knocking into the kitchen aisle at his side and a stammered a greeting. “I, um, didn’t notice you there.” He looked from the other man to the letters on the aisle, unsure of what to do with himself. “It’s alright. I didn’t say anything.” He heard George say and glanced at him, noticing a smile. The cat was pacing back and forth between the legs of the two men.

Ringo, as much as he didn’t want to, turned his back to George and looked down at the letters; willing his sudden thoughts away. His thoughts about wiping the dirt of the other man’s brow and cheeks. Gently holding his hands, washing them clean of dirt. He heard soft gentle laughter and the tapping of shoes as George entered his view on the other side of the aisle. George’s back was turned as he turned on the faucet, leaving a view for Ringo that he certainly didn’t hate.

 

* * *

 

As he washed the stems of the flower, a waft of dirt and nature greeted him. It was the faucet to use for garden work, he knew this, but as he had seen Ringo on the floor petting Starr, something had just pulled him inside. And instead of just leaving again, exposing what he had originally gone there to do, he had come to the idea of risking his job to just be a moment longer with Ringo. His heart was beating, almost painfully, as he continued fixing up the roses. His thoughts were filled with images of Ringo and he reached up to grab a vase, he lost his grip on it as he had gotten distracted. It shattered at his feet and George sighed. 

A sound of stool hastily pushed back was heard, later combined with the tapping of shoes that came hurried to his side. Ringo grabbed his hand and stared at it. “Are you alright?” He heard himself getting asked, but it was like a haze to him. A warmth filled him from his hands to his ears and he looked at Ringo with giant brown eyes. “Y-Yeah,” he tried his best to say but it only came out as a mumble. He looked down at their feet surrounded by porcelain that probably had cost more than everything he owned combined. “Sorry ‘bout your vase,” he said, probably to low to be heard. But the answer he got was a burst of delightful laughter that got him to look back up. It was stunning. Ringo was stunning. Ringo who was stilling holding his hand, looked at him with bright eyes. “That’s okay.” He nodded. George, almost without noticing it himself, moved his own hand to place it above Ringo’s. And there they stood, now in silence. Holding onto each other with porcelain pieces at their feet. Both leaned closer to each other. George felt time move and the beating of his heart in his ears. 

The lips met, worlds collided, and George felt dazed mixed with the taste of coffee and toothpaste. His eyes were shut as he leaned down to meet the slightly shorter man. It was hard for him to believe it was happening but it really was. The room felt warmer than it ever had. Sunlight and the smell of the roses filled the air, together with his smell of dirt and Ringo’s cologne. They parted, both with a sigh, and George rested his head atop of Ringo’s. He knew this was something to be talked about. To be discussed. The after. But for now, all he wanted was to stay in the now. To stay so close to Ringo. To breathe him in. To stay in this moment just a little longer.

**Author's Note:**

> I'M NOT SORRY.


End file.
